


Amaranthine

by bigbadroman



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Angst and Porn, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, post-Survivor Series '15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 22:57:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5351477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigbadroman/pseuds/bigbadroman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the dark of their hotel room, Dean's touch is what keeps Roman alive, what makes him conscious that he's actually breathing while his soul mourns silently the accomplishment that just slipped through his fingers. He feels like he's nothing, knows that he's a walking nothing, yet Dean is there to prove him wrong, his hands drawing a belt around Roman's waist, lips curling against his shoulder in soft whispers. </p><p>[Basically the way Dean has brought Roman back to life after Survivor Series. Yep, I'm late... But better late than never?]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amaranthine

**Author's Note:**

> am·a·ran·thine (ăm′ə-răn′thĭn, -thīn′)  
> adj.
> 
> 1\. Of, relating to, or resembling an amaranth.  
> 2\. Eternally beautiful and unfading; everlasting.  
> 3\. Deep purple-red.

In the dark of their hotel room, Dean's touch is what keeps Roman alive, what makes him conscious that he's actually breathing while his soul mourns silently the accomplishment that just slipped through his fingers. He feels like he's nothing, knows that he's a walking nothing, yet Dean is there to prove him wrong, his hands drawing a belt around Roman's waist, lips curling against his shoulder in soft whispers. 

Roman hasn't even got a single word stuck in his throat, he just lets the other man fill the silence and all that emptiness with love and pride and consolation and love, love, tons of love, years, eons of love – crushed together, somehow. The way only Dean can, all husky mumbles, scattered in the heavy aftermath of Roman's loss as a thousand and more reasons for him to feel the champion – even if he's not anymore. He gurgles nothing but a moan, because it hurts, everything still fucking hurts. Even having clothes on hurts, same as breathing, same as his trembling muscles and those torn dreams of glory that are cruelly cutting into his worn out heart. It's all a big painful tangle, reminding him how useless, how weak he is, when his utmost is still not enough. 

'Pathetic', he thinks, such a toxic cognition crawling through every single one of his bones, and the only reason he's still standing on his feet at that point is Dean that just doesn't let go of him.

He realizes he's naked only when he feels Dean's skin pressing gently against his own. He doesn't even starts wondering when that exactly happened, where the fuck he was while the man in front of him was stripping him, since all of that doesn't matter as soon as he's being cradled by Dean's arms, drenched with his warmth. 

Roman's mouth opens a little, his breath coming out wrapped in sadness; he'd like to say something, just to let the other man know how grateful he is for having him at his side, for having him right there picking up the broken pieces so patiently – when the whole world knows Dean Ambrose is no patient man. 

'Maybe', Roman thinks, 'I've lost count of the exceptions he's made for me. How could I?'. 

Yet, no sound but a gloomy sigh leaves his lips. It's like he's forgotten how to talk, lost like a newborn with wreckage weighing on his shoulders. What he wonders now is when his back is going to be broken for good. 

'Thank God I have you, Dean. Dean. I wouldn't have been able to pick myself up again, get off the ring and walk up that ramp, if I didn't know you were there waiting for me'.

He needs to say it, he tries, he forces himself to, but nothing happens. He's silent like a solitary, dusty grave but somewhere inside he's screaming out loud, 'cause he so desperately doesn't want to be as cold as stone. Not with Dean, not when he loves him so much it burns, it burns, it burns so good.

He lets his man lead him toward the bed, falling on it first, and Dean on top of him. Roman parts his lips in a couple of sighs when Dean straddles him and bends over to cover his face in kisses, nibbling here and there.

"Want me to ride you? Slow, nice?" Dean murmurs, squeezing his thighs a little, his spine arching to create a little friction between him and Roman. "The only way I can now, since you speared the fuck out of me, baby." He chuckles so lightly, the hint of a strange melancholy trapped in his voice. So much to be sad for and no way to completely hide it.

The other man just slightly shakes his head; yet, his hands travel toward the small of Dean's back, gently pushing him down to meet his mouth. Suddenly he's touching him everywhere, palms spread while clinging to Dean's beautiful, scarred back. His fingers falters on the long line running down his man's shoulder blade, a cut he's so often blessed with the worshipful touch of his lips. He can feel Dean shiver and squirm, his tongue, teeth and breath chasing his own.

"Let me help you, baby." He hears him whisper, gasping. "You need that. Let me show you how good you are. How good you feel, how high you take me." Dean mumbles, drunk on kisses, lifting himself from Roman's chest to lower his own boxers.

'I don't need sex. I need you, just you.' It's what the Samoan would like to say, but the only thing he manages to do is grab his wrist to stop him. That breaks something into Dean's eyes, as if he suddenly realizes being misplaced, unwanted. Nothing more wrong than that, but Roman can't fucking talk, and Dean is no fucking magician who can read his mind.

The next one is a bitter pill to swallow. Dean's voice cracks, his gaze stilling coldly on the other's. For some reason, he still believes that physical comfort is all he has to offer, and seeing it rejected feels like all of him is not useful, not needed. If he can't fuck the pain out of his man, what good is he then? "Talk. You want me gone? Just fucking say it."

At that, Roman panics, as if air is being torn out from his lungs. And yet again, words don't succeed to leave his throat. Instinctively, he pulls Dean closer – where he should always be, lying on his heart – squeezing him tight, no way he can't feel how fast his pulse is. The other man is achingly tense, almost fighting against the contact now, and that makes the world crumble all around Roman for the second time that same night. It's too much, he's only human, he can't take it, he can't make it.

"No. Please. I'm sorry. I just-" He strives to speak, consumed by sorrow, a few words costing him all his resistance. He's crying again when Dean unclenches, and he feels so miserable he doesn't want to look into a mirror ever again. He's lost himself so deep into nowhere he's afraid Dean's not gonna find anything next time he lays eyes upon him.

But Dean does, like always. He'd find him blindly into a dark abyss, of course he can find him in an ocean of despair. Dean sees him, as bright and beautiful and generous and mighty and golden as he is. Even with tears streaming down his mortal face, Dean sees instead a god, the only god he'd ever believe in. 

"It's alright, Rome. It's you and me, now." He says, shaking fingers carefully tracing the wetness on Roman's cheeks. "Enough." Last time he's seen his man so broken, he was broken too, they were broken together, backs hurting because of chair shots, hearts bleeding because of the one that got away. That can't be happening again. "Enough. Tomorrow you're gonna go out there and stand tall, champ. I know you will."

The Samoan sucks in a deep breath while closing his eyes, Dean's touch a lot sweeter than his lie. "I'm not the champ."

"Yes, you are. You're the champion. You jus' have to take your belt back." The other man scolds him, pressing a finger on his mouth before he can even reply. "And if you say 'no' I'm going to kick your ass. 't would be a pity, since it's a gorgeous one."

Crackling like a young fire, a new strength coyly starts to simmer through Roman's veins, his self-confidence revolving around how convincing Dean sounds when slightly pissed off. So handsome – eyes of a gleaming blue, frowned lips and messy curls falling on his forehead – he must be a sinful angel sent on Earth to bring light into his life, Roman is sure of that. 

Nodding, he goes in for a kiss, colliding with Dean half way. There's nothing rough, nor rushed; it's an appetite that grows slowly, as Roman is being rebuilt kiss by kiss, moan by moan. All of him is coming back whole, all his splinters gingerly returning to match as one piece. It's the best sensation Dean's ever experienced, he can feel it happening like a rippling, warming miracle under his hands, inch by inch, between the twitching of his tongue and the way his man finally breathes like he means it. They're both restoring themselves – body and soul – in the sacred way that belongs to star-crossed lovers, agape, trembling lungs, slow, so slow, the heat of a dawning expanding preciously from under their skin. 

"Beautiful. 'ts beautiful."

"What…"

"You, Roman. You coming back to life, to me. Don't you dare leave again. Just don't. I love my Roman Reigns angry, remember? I love my Roman Reigns fierce, strong."

"…love you." The other blissfully whispers, a sigh of relief dimming his voice. Dean's scent is alluring, all over him. He can almost taste it and dip his fingers into it. Like his senses can fully perceive it just now, reborn as they are. "So much."

The work of beauty that are Dean's legs, stretch lazily while he climbs off the bed. So suddenly that Roman finds himself almost running after the lost touch, sitting on the mattress and reaching out to him. He's thirsty, addicted to attentions, now that he managed to focus on them only and leave out all the rest. He needs to feel Dean against his chest and simply wishes there's a way to imprint him on his own skin, to make him a living, blazing tattoo spreading all over his body in glorious frames. Withdrawal kicks in hard.

"Quiet, big dog. I'mma be back soon. Promise." Dean chuckles, and Roman can't help but wonder if he even realizes how fine he is with those dimples of his, when he smiles temptingly like that. 'Want to keep you more than forever' he thinks, and maybe one day he'll be able to say that, how much he's sure that their love will last beyond their grave.

Dean removes his own underwear before crouching in front of his bag, zip almost thundering in the silence. He's quivering with want, his hands faltering while grabbing what he's been looking for. "We've got the whole night for cuddles and stuff. I need you inside me right now, Roman."

When his eyes are fixed on the other's again, undeniable consent is there. Dean gets in bed, crawling at Roman's side to kiss him deeply, insane how much he missed his tongue on his own for just a few seconds. As he slowly rises, he notices the Samoan's palm is open, waiting for something. "No. It's on me. Jus' lay down, hm? Big boy here can take care of himself." He says, shooing his hand with a tiny slap. 

Knees on the mattress and clenched thighs, Dean arches to show off his half boner a little, indulging in some quick strokes that draw a couple of gasps out of his mouth. After splaying his legs enough to be comfortable, he bends over himself, slick fingers slathering lube on his entrance. Roman knows he's pushed the first one deeper when he sees his mouth going lax – that sole sight making his own water. Swallowing his desire, breath already increasing, the Samoan really fights not to touch him. He takes the chance to do that to himself, though, right hand settling on a steady pace on his cock.

"Fuck, Ro. Rome." Dean whimpers, adding a second finger to hit his sweet spot. Roman hastens to get to him, his free hand pulling gently at the other's hair, Dean's neck curving obediently to follow his tug. He finds lust and impatience pooling into those baby blue eyes, and doesn't resist the urge to feast on his man's moans even before they leave his wet lips.

Dean writhes for a tougher entertainment, for a presence way stronger and thicker than his digits. He wants more and more and more, he wants that glorious cock that's right before his eyes. When he knows he's ready, he gropes for the condom lying somewhere on the sheets and throws it to Roman. "Come on, stud." He pants.

As soon as the other's ready too, Dean frantically goes straddle him. Lining up with Roman, he sinks down onto his cock, as smooth as he can. He's always been a slut for pain, never scared of it, not sparing himself any, but this is different. This is Roman and he hurts _good_. He hurts _right_.

With trembling thighs and clasping his man's pecs for balance, Dean tries to adjust to the feeling. The Samoan's hold on his hips is immediate, careful yet firm; it tells everything there is to know about Roman. "I got you, baby." He whispers, a couple of times at least, making Dean want to melt away into his arms. He seriously asks himself what did he do to deserve that, _him_.

As Dean starts rolling his pelvis – so quietly Roman can feel it matching the rhythm of his breath – the other closes his eyes, dizzyingly at peace. Back and forth, not daring to move any faster cause he wants it to last as long as possible, Dean's delving hips are perfectly at home while embracing Roman's shaft. "You know how does it feel like, Roman? Fucking good, like you fill every part of me. My bare skin against yours, I lack noth-"

He's forced to trail off by Roman's fist closing deliciously around his dick, causing his mouth to fall open and his groin to ripple with pleasure. From that moment on, groans and sharp intakes of air twirl between them in a cozy, building tension. Dean stretches his back in search of the perfect angle, fucking himself deep, lazily, pushing hard against his prostate; so much he can't help but pray to Roman's name again and again, his husky voice dripping ecstasy.

Roman is bathing in that hot note, his own relish growing in a maddeningly soft way that is simply consuming him to the bone. Dean is tight enough to feel like a fever he'd never get rid of, sucking him in so good he's even left behind the failure he believed he was. 'Cause now it finally came to his senses just how capable he is of being enough, how he's made to make Dean forget he's ever been empty.

Dean welcomes Roman's hand accompanying him all the way up to the finest pleasure, his riding shifting to an anxious pace just right before the apex. And he gives himself over to the lashing tide of his orgasm between Roman's fingers, release falling on the other's golden body like a carnal blessing.

Panting, Dean knows nothing anymore about what it means to be human, to have your feet on the ground. Sliding away from Roman's cock, he still feels in a fog, flesh jolting in the aftershocks. He almost blindly reaches for his man's erection, quickly freeing him of the condom to blow the orgasm out of him. The Samoan urgently plunges one hand into Dean's hair – scratching lightly at his scalp, soft and tousled curls engulfing his fingers – and comes that way, in a searing mounting of tension that gathers and explodes throughout his muscles. He's spent, can't even bear to look at that or he'll die again, but he _feels_ Dean's tongue trailing his own cum up the niches of his stiffened abs. 

"Here. Let me- uh, let me taste you." He gasps, eager.

Gladly complying, Dean crawls on top of him, lips parting mischievously against Roman's. They end up tangled into a messy, sloppy, wet kiss that _truly_ tastes of them. Somehow a declaration of love, perhaps a little unorthodox.

"You know you didn't need sex to cheer me up, do you? Your presence is the only thing I-"

"Sap. Get some rest." Dean cuts him short, bumping his forehead against Roman's before falling onto his side of the bed and turning the lamp off.

"And now you're avoiding things." He sighs, curling up against him, his right arm keeping Dean as close as he can.

The other retorts, snorting like a scolded child. "I ain't avoiding shit. You need some sleep and so do I."

"Stubborn as a mule." Roman remarks, placing a kiss on Dean's nape before finally falling silent. 

"Fuck you."

The Samoan giggles at that, his heart pounding calmly, his confidence rebuilt in a monstrous shape. He feels like he can take over the world now, when just an hour or so ago he couldn't even tell if he was still able of perceiving something else other than distress. It's a miracle, and it came from the man whose warmth he's drowning into. Dean is bright summer when outside there's freezing winter.

"Ehy." He breaks the silence, he has to. " _Thank you_."

Dean doesn't answer. He simply squeezes Roman's hand tighter between his own, kissing him goodnight on his knuckles. He believes Roman is his own bright summer too, and can't even think of him losing the precious sunshine flowing through his veins. He'll never allow that to happen.

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah. I hope this doesn't suck. Just a lot of feels I needed to write down.
> 
> As always, thanks to pezziecoyote for beta-reading<3


End file.
